


Death Solves All - A 008 Story

by rach_com89



Category: James Bond - All Media Types
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-14
Updated: 2017-01-17
Packaged: 2018-09-17 08:32:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 11
Words: 8,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9313694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rach_com89/pseuds/rach_com89
Summary: James Bond, in his early days on Her Majesty's Secret Service, finds himself under the tutelage of the more experienced Elliot Scott, 008 to his 007, as they must head to Russia to take down an old adversary, SMERSH.





	1. Introductions

**Author's Note:**

> My first fan-fiction work published to AO3. And, my first published anywhere in a while.
> 
> Having been a fan of Rufus Sewell for nearly 3 years, and desperate to see him in a Bond film (as any good-looking actor should be), I decided to use him as the face-claim for my mature, erudite, trenchant take on the ever-elusive 008. 007, in this...pick whichever is your favourite (mine? Pierce Brosnan.)
> 
> So, those expecting 007 might be a little surprised to find 008 is in the driving seat for this one.
> 
> (Also, the title comes from a quote by Joseph Stalin; Death solves all problems; no man, no problem. Seemed rather fitting at the time, despite there being no real plot to this piece.)
> 
> Will update when I can!
> 
> Note: Google Translate will come in handy for the Russian parts, as I won't include the translations myself.

“Morning, James; you’re late.” Miss Moneypenny’s stern tone drones dryly from behind her desk, as 007 enters hurriedly into the office she occupies ahead of M’s. Bond pauses a moment alongside her desk, leaning against the polished oak with one hand whilst keeping the other casually in his trouser pocket,  
“Better late than never, Moneypenny.” He growls jestingly back at the desirable secretary. She glances questionably over the black rim of her spectacles, as she continues typing away on the typewriter before her,  
“Not when it comes to M, James; he told me to call in 008 instead.” She remarks nonchalantly. Bond’s face drops in a frightful expression of dread, and he gulps. Hard,  
“Tell me you didn’t.” The secretary smirks, removes her glasses, and leans back in her chair,  
“Would I do that to you?” She teasingly purrs, before straightening up, “I assured him that you would be along in next to no time; you were probably just caught in traffic, weren’t you, James?”  
“Thank you, Moneypenny, you’re a lifesaver.” 007 gives an amicable wink to the secretary, before making his way through the double doors into M’s office. A lamp with a green glass shade casts a warm glow over the stern face of the Head of the Secret Intelligence Service, as he sits behind his large desk in the centre of the room. Bill Tanner, M’s trusted Chief of Staff, stands behind the director’s chair,  
“Take a seat, Bond.” M drones, unimpressed.  
“Apologies for the delay; there was a spot of bother on Grosvenor Place.”  
“Moneypenny told me it was roadworks that kept you.” M glances up from the file in front of him, with an eyebrow raised in puzzlement,  
“Burst water-pipe.” Bond states bluntly, trying to brush it off casually.  
“Hmm.”  
“Traffic went back about eight cars already, by the time I got on to the road.”  
“Well, you’re here now, I suppose.” M glances questionably at the secret agent again, as he reaches down into a drawer of his desk, “Take a look at these files, Bond, and tell me…” He’s stopped short by the opening of the double doors of his office. A tall man in a black suit & navy tie strides confidently to the Head’s desk, as Bond sinks down into his seat.  
“Ah, Elliot, I’m afraid you’re not needed now after all.” M greets the man with a warm smile; it is Elliot Scott, 008 to James’ 007 and the most knowledgeable agent on the service,  
“Oh, well…” He begins, his pride wounded, “Nothing else you could’ve needed me for, Gareth?” He is on first-name terms with his superior,  
“No.” M rises from his chair and greets the agent with a handshake, “I was going to give you Bond’s case, if he hadn’t turned up, but as you can plainly see he’s here now.”  
“If only I’d been a little faster coming down from my office.” Elliot grimaces; James rolls his eyes,  
“You know, Moneypenny told me that she hadn’t called Scott in?” He then remarks.  
“I knew she wouldn’t.” The Head of the Secret Service retorts with a smirk, “I called him myself.” He adds, before snatching the file from Bond, “Tell you what, Elliot; seeing as you’re here, take a look at this.” M passes the manila folder to Scott. The tall agent, reading the file rapidly, runs a hand over his dark salt-&-pepper curls once he’s done,  
“Well, I never…” He then gasps,  
“Yes, it’s not looking good.” The Head drones back, returning slowly to his chair,  
“I’ll say; I thought we disbanded them.” Scott remarks, as he walks to stand alongside M,  
“Looks like a few of them have returned, crawled out of the woodwork, to try restarting their old mission.”  
“Who?” Bond frowns, leaning forward in his seat,  
“SMERSH.” Scott tosses the folder down on to the desk for Bond to see, “Just what we need, another desperate comeback.” He quips dryly, glancing off to the side.

“Yes,” M begins, “only this one isn’t just some washed-up boyband with out-of-tune singing and ‘dad bods’, Elliot. This is SMERSH; Směrť Špionam. ‘Death to Spies’.”  
“Yes, Gareth, I’m well aware of the name and its translation.” Scott rolls his eyes in apathy, “And, ‘dad bods’; since when were you down with the kids’ lingo?”  
“It could be dangerous to send just one of our agents, M.” Bill, who had been standing in silent observation, steps forward. Elliot straightens up slowly, menacingly, as M leans forward in contemplation,  
“You’re right.” The Head mumbles,  
“Are you meaning to say that I can’t handle it on my own? It’s half the size, if not a mere quarter, of what SMERSH used to be! I can handle a band of disenchanted Soviets myself.” Scott points a slender finger furiously at the Chief of Staff,  
“Now, now; Elliot. He meant no offence.” M mollifies the agent standing at his side, “Besides, it might get the job done quicker. Clear up this new branch of SMERSH, before anyone else hears of them, and back home before anyone starts missing you. America did actually offer a couple of their CIA boys to help us; what we need them for, I’m not sure.”  
“America have already been on the phone?” Bond, who hasn’t been able to get a word in, leans forward in his chair.  
“Mm.” The Head hums apathetically, before turning sharply back to Scott, “Elliot, I know it’s a big ask, but would you assist Bond in taking down SMERSH again?”  
“Assist Bond?” Elliot frowns, “I’m not the Secret Service babysitter, Gareth; I’m not holding anyone’s hand on any case. I’m either on my own on this, or he assists me.”  
“Alright, alright; he can assist you.”  
“He will assist me.” Elliot glares darkly at James with burning green eyes, “Not that I need the assistance.”  
“Nor do I.” Bond retorts coldly.  
“Either way, you’re getting it.” M addresses them both, “I’ll make the arrangements for your travels; you better both go visit Q. I’m sure he’ll have some wonderful new gadgets to aid you. Unless, you don’t need his assistance either?”  
“Very funny, M.” Bond drones, as he rises reluctantly from his chair. Elliot comes to stand before him,  
“I guess we’re partners on this one, Bond.”  
“I guess so, Scott.” James looks his fellow agent up & down, before gesturing to the double doors, “After you, partner.” He sneers. Elliot strides confidently to the doors, before turning last-minute,  
“We should probably postpone that round of golf, then, Gareth?” He remarks,  
“Oh, yes, we’ll play a round when you get back.” M retorts lightly, “Oh, Elliot, I’ve been meaning to ask; how was your little break?”  
“Good, thank you, Gareth.”  
“I trust you weren’t…alone?”  
“Now, Gareth; you know what the Americans said about loose lips during the war…” Elliot smirks knowingly, before strolling out of the Head’s office with James following reluctantly at his heels.


	2. Equipment

Bond arrives at the office of Geoffrey Boothroyd, the visionary quartermaster to Her Majesty’s Secret Service, to find Scott had gotten ahead of him, with his gangling stride, and is inspecting one of the many inventions to clutter the office,  
“T-twist the two halves, a-and it will trigger a tiny bomb enclosed in the pen’s casing!” Boothroyd, more commonly known as Q, stammers excitedly. Scott’s face drops in his horror, and he holds the pen at arm’s length, until he spots his partner in the doorway,  
“Here, James…a present.” He tosses the exploding pen Bond’s way, “Don’t twist it; it’ll blow up in your face.” He grins wryly, before casually sauntering around the expansive office with a hand in his trouser pocket,  
“So, SMERSH are making a comeback?” Boothroyd glances up from another creation of his, and directs his question to Bond,  
“They’re trying…” Scott drones dryly, “They won’t succeed.” He adds with obvious confidence. Bond pockets the pen and strolls across to Boothroyd’s desk,  
“Who are SMERSH, Q?”  
“SMERSH were a group of highly-organised, highly-weaponised terrorists, Bond. Every agent should know that.” Scott cuts in again, as he runs a hand over an unassuming briefcase,  
“B-be careful with that, 008; one false move and this whole office could implode.”  
“You mean explode?”  
“No, I know what I said; implode.” With that, Scott backs away in fear of the brown leather case. Q moves to a safe in the north wall of his office,  
“I’ve kept your effects safe in your absences; your Walther PPK/E firearms, of course, and your voice-recorders, walkie-talkies, cameras, and monoculars…” He states, as he takes out every item carefully, “And, you’re both still equipped with your tracking devices. I-I hope you enjoyed your annual leave in Pontresina, 008.” He then adds nonchalantly,  
“Yes…very peaceful; thank you, Q.” Scott grumbles embarrassedly, as Bond starts to snicker,  
“And, you enjoyed your time in Shropshire, James?” Q smirks. Bond stops laughing, as Scott turns to the younger agent with confident smirk of his own,  
“Yes, Q,” James replies, “very tranquil and quaint.”  
“Mm.” Elliot hums doubtfully, as he holsters his Walther, “Q, if you could stop tracking us when we’re off-duty…? As we’ve discussed; oh, I don’t know, several times already?”  
“Just keeping an eye on Her Majesty’s finest assets.” Q quips in retort,  
“I thought Her Majesty’s finest assets were the crown jewels?” Bond frowns,  
“Please, James.” Elliot cuts sharply, “Twenty-three-thousand-plus precious stones aren’t going to protect Queen & Country now, are they?” He sneers in sly assurance, and steps out. Bond’s shoulders slump in apathy,  
“I have to work with him.” He mentions to Q, “I have to go to Russia with him…”  
“Chin up, 007; I hear Scott’s planning to retire soon. He’s no spring-chicken anymore, you know?”

James dashes to catch up with Elliot Scott, as the experienced agent strides proudly along the corridor that leads away from Boothroyd’s office. He is so self-assured that he does not even look where he is going; he just knows, as he coolly checks his Walther handgun over. He then tucks the firearm back into the holster under his left arm, and tidies the lapels of his suit jacket,  
“So, Pontresina then, Scott?” James banters wryly, as he catches him,  
“At least it wasn’t Shropshire, James.” Elliot retorts drolly back, “Ha; Shropshire…really?”  
“It’s quiet.” Bond argues,  
“It’s quaint, is what it is.”  
“You never confirmed, nor denied, M’s suggestion that you weren’t alone…” Bond attempts to change the subject back to Scott’s leave,  
“In the words of Mother Teresa, Bond; loneliness and the feeling of being unwanted is the most terrible poverty.” Elliot adjusts the cuffs of his shirt & jacket on his right arm, as he strides coolly along with the younger agent at his heels like some irritating pup,  
“So, you weren’t alone?” With this, Elliot stops, sharpish, and turns on his heels, with a look of incredulousness on his face,  
“You didn’t honestly think I would be, did you?” He questions, “My God; you did. You really thought that I, of all people, would go to Pontresina alone?”  
“Who was she? Or he? I-I don’t know…” Bond starts tripping over his own tongue,  
“She, Bond; my companion was of the fairer sex. As for who exactly…” He pats 007 patronisingly on the cheek, “Gentlemen never kiss and tell.” He growls wickedly, before walking on. James chases after him,  
“Wait up, Scott!”  
“Keep up, Bond!” Elliot retorts, before stepping into an elevator a short distance along the corridor, “You have until the count of five, James; one…two…I’m reaching for the button…three…I’m almost done counting…four…” The younger agent barrels onto the elevator, with seconds to spare, “…good man.”


	3. The Flight

Seated one behind the other in economy seats on an international commercial flight to Moscow, Russia, James & Elliot start the flight by saying little to one another. Elliot busies himself by reading over the case file in more detail behind the cover of an in-flight magazine. James sits twiddling his thumbs until about halfway into the flight, when he leans forward in his seat,  
“Economy? Really? Could Mallory have not sprung for Business?”  
“On short-notice, James?” Elliot frowns, “Not likely.”  
“It’s so uncomfortable in Economy.” Bond gripes, as he shuffles. Scott adjusts his own position, with a little more class & decorum than his fellow agent,  
“Unfortunately, aviation travel isn’t what it once was for long-legged fellows such as myself; the need to squash passengers in like sardines to economise the capacity…” He complains quietly, before folding the magazine & file up, “Take a walk with me, James.” He adds sharply, as he stands,  
“I-I’m fine.”   
“Take a walk with me, James.” Elliot leans in, his green eyes burning dark in his authority, “Now.” Sheepishly, Bond unbuckles his seatbelt and follows the superior 00 along the aisle, toward the back of the plane, “Once we land in Moscow, we will be heading to the Pushkin Museum over on Ulitsa Volkhonka, to meet with our correspondents there. Then, this evening, there is supposed to be a benefit of sorts at the Tretyakov Gallery over on Lavrushinsky Lane, which is to be attended by Marat Mordvinov.” Scott starts immediately relaying information to the young agent in a quiet whisper,  
“Correspondents?”  
“Yes; they have been following Mordvinov, and the re-emergence of SMERSH, for a few months now. They will bring us up to speed, when we meet them.” Elliot explains, as a brunette stewardess saunters by. She smiles warmly at the two men, but only James shows an interest. Elliot tugs at the young agent’s lapels, “Concentrate.”  
“Who’s this Mordinov fellow then?”  
“Mordvinov; Marat Mordvinov.” Elliot corrects him, flashing the file at Bond. There, amongst the paperwork, is a photo of an ice-blue-eyed man with thick eyebrows & an incredibly strong jaw, in traditional Russian military dress of an ushanka & a green telogreika, “the new head of SMERSH.”  
“New?”

“Oh yes, that’s right.” Scott murmurs, “You won’t be acquainted with the exploits of Mordvinov Senior; Marat’s father, Yegor, and the old head of SMERSH. Why didn’t Gareth send me with someone who knows what they’re heading into?” He grumbles in his annoyance,  
“Probably because all the other 00 agents that went against SMERSH the first time didn’t come back.” Bond quips, with one brow raised, as he tugs at the sleeve of his shirt. Scott glares silently at him for a moment,  
“They were fine men, James; exemplary men. Their deaths should not be taken lightly.” He then growls, “Especially considering where you and I are currently heading.”  
“Sorry, Elliot.”  
“Scott.” The senior agent growls correctively, before turning back to the file, “Old Yegor Mordvinov; he was a hard man to pin down for too long.”   
“Let’s hope that Mordvinov Junior is a little less careful.” Bond remarks lightly,  
“I’d say let’s not.” Scott retorts with a smirk, “Takes all the fun out of the chase; the thrill out of the case.”   
“I thought, seeing how you’re getting on a bit now, that you would want to be slowing things down…”  
“You could always go after SMERSH on your own.” Scott states harshly, “I’ll just head for the hills of Pontresina with…no, never mind who with.” He stops himself short and starts to head back to his seat,  
“With?” James, however, follows on his heels,  
“I said never mind who with.”   
“You can’t leave me hanging like this, Scott. And, you know I’m likely to find out sooner or later. Why not make it sooner, and save me the trouble?”  
“Why should I save you the trouble?” Elliot smirks, “Where’s the fun in that?”  
“Nowhere, for me.”  
“Leaves all the more for me, then.”


	4. Arrival

Upon landing in Moscow, the two men of Her Majesty’s Secret Service alight at the airport into a taxi,  
“Not too dissimilar to the taxis you find in New York City.” Scott refers to the vibrant yellow paint job,  
“Wouldn’t know myself; never been.” Bond retorts, before the rough, plump driver turns to them and starts talking in his mother tongue. Effortlessly, Elliot Scott replies in near-perfect Russian. The driver nods subserviently, and the cab pulls away from the curb. Impressed, James turns to his associate,  
“What did you tell him? And, what did he say to you?”  
“As any good taxi driver, James, he asked to know where we would like to go. Like any decent passenger, I politely told him the Pushkin Museum.”  
“You didn’t want to head to our hotel, to jettison our luggage, and then head over to the museum first?”  
“Instructions, James, are to head to the museum; to meet with our… colleagues.” Scott is careful in the presence of the Russians, Bond notes, “Ostanovi mashinu. Stop, srazu.” Elliot suddenly commands the driver,  
“Pardon?” The driver grunts back,  
“Ostanovi mashinu.” Elliot commands calmly, so as not to raise suspicions. The taxi pulls up to the curb, and Elliot Scott placidly exits the vehicle. James Bond does not, not immediately, “Out, James. Out of the cab; come on.”  
“W-what?”  
“Out of the cab, James.” The junior agent slips out of the taxi, like an offended schoolboy, whilst Scott claims the luggage from the trunk. The yellow cab then slowly crawls away,  
“Why did you ditch the taxi?” Bond queries, turning slowly to Scott,  
“SMERSH agent, or he has contacts with them. Informant, or some fellow that passes information to their members.” Scott explains shortly, “Surprised he did as I said, and let us get away. Brits on their soil again; he should have locked the doors and taken us right to SMERSH headquarters.”  
“I must say; your Russian impresses me.” James remarks, forgetting his superior agent's concerns,  
“You don’t tail Yegor Mordvinov for three years without picking up some of the native language.” Elliot quips.

“Three years?” Bond questions incredulously, as the two men walk along the road, carrying their cases themselves,  
“Three. Years.” Elliot groans tiredly, “Three years! Thirty-six months. A little over one-hundred & fifty-six weeks of not just tailing Mordvinov, but serving him. I became his right-hand-man; I seduced his wife for a time, before she disappeared. Disappeared?” He scoffs, “He had her killed; his elite execution squad picked her off in a group of his enemies. I didn’t have a hand in killing anyone; Mordvinov’s right-hand-man didn’t do any killing. I was more like a bodyguard to the SMERSH boss. I didn’t know much Russian, when I started, but I’m a quick learner of languages.”  
“What happened to Mordvinov Senior, then?” Bond questions,  
“His bodyguard killed him.” Elliot Scott remarks bluntly. James has to do a double-take,  
“You mean; you killed him?”  
“Yes.” Elliot confesses, “That’s why, on this case, you will be taking the lead, James.”  
“Me?”  
“It’s too dangerous for me, to get anywhere near Marat Mordvinov; I’m the man who killed his father and helped bring down SMERSH the first time…”  
“Marat knows it was you?”  
“I don’t know, but it’s better to be safe than sorry with the Mordvinov family.” Scott puts his case down a moment, and lights a cigarette, “And, we will have to proceed with even more caution from now on; if that taxi driver was really a SMERSH agent.”  
“You killed Yegor Mordvinov? Were you compromised, or…?”  
“Gareth…I mean; M gave the order. Don’t know who it came from directly, but M gave it to me. Mordvinov Senior was getting too big for his boots; someone had to kill him, and I was the closest Allied agent they had in the field at the time. So, one night, after his daily dinner with Marat, I shot him. Point blank…”  
“Point blank?”  
“I was the only one who could get close enough to shoot him, and then stage a missed opportunity on the bodyguard’s part. When Marat & the other guards came rushing into Yegor’s room, I made it look like I’d stumbled on the crime scene and the assassin had made their escape out of the window.”   
“The window? Was it not high up off the ground?”  
“Yegor’s room was on the first floor; he was getting old. Marat’s was on the top floor of the SMERSH complex. It made it easier to plan ahead, and prepare the scene for discovery. As Yegor lay bleeding on the bed, I pushed the window wide and opened the closet door…”  
“Why the closet door?”  
“To make it look like the killer had been lying in wait for Mordvinov; only thing was, it was the bodyguard’s job to scan the room before Mordvinov walked in. I passed that off, to Marat, by saying that his father couldn’t wait; he had to go to the little boy’s room.”


	5. The Correspondents

Reaching the grand steps of the Pushkin Museum, Elliot Scott places his suitcase at his feet and consults the case-file, this time hidden by an inconspicuous tourists’ guide of Russia’s capital that he picked up at the airport. James Bond leisurely glances around at the crowds milling in & out of the fine arts institution. Without warning, Scott’s mobile phone rings,  
“Yes, it’s lovely weather here, at the moment. Yes, we have ‘umbrellas’ in case it turns nasty. No, the other visitors haven’t arrived, yet. Yes, I’ll be sure to tell them that, when they do. Talk again later.” He talks brusquely, quietly,  
“Gareth?” Bond turns to his associate curiously, and somewhat mocking their friendship,  
“Who else?” Scott drones back, glaring darkly at the junior agent. He then glances around at the crowds, “Any sights worth seeing?”  
“None, yet. Perhaps, we should take a look inside the museum, whilst we’re here?” Bond suggests hopefully,  
“There’s nothing worth seeing in the Pushkin.” A masculine voice, with a soft Texan accent, cuts in sharply from the Englishmen’s backs, “It doesn’t really compare with the Serpentine Galleries in London.” He adds. Both British agents turn around to find a short, well-built man in a relaxed-fit cream shirt & brown slacks. His dark hair is neatly styled into a side-parted coif, and his eyes are presently hidden behind square-rim sunglasses. Behind him, there stands a dark-blonde young man, dressed in high-waisted pleated beige trousers & a black shirt with an open collar. He also wears sunglasses, but does not appear quite as relaxed as the Texan individual. Scott steps in front of his partner and frowns knowingly,  
“The, er, Serpentine Galleries? What about the Fredericksburg Art Gallery, in Texas, though? It’s small, but I hear it’s quite the gallery for art enthusiasts.”  
“Ah, yeah, but there is one gallery here that beats them both hands down.” The Texan states,  
“Now, would that be the…Tretyakov?” Scott sneers deliberately,  
“Actually, yes, it would.” The Texan smiles shrewdly, “Good to see you, Elliot; it’s been a while.”  
“It has, Frank; it has. Maybe, a little too long?”

"Maybe.” Frank Bressler, a CIA operative for the last nine years, smirks, “Maybe.” He then eyes Scott’s partner, “New associate?”  
“Fellow by the name of James Bond. MI6 wants me to babysit him on this one; it’s his first rodeo, as you would say.” Scott glances a moment at Bressler’s partner, “And yours?”  
“Benjamin Isenberg; a kid new to the game, as well.”  
“Nice afternoon, isn’t it?” Isenberg then drawls, without moving much,  
“I suppose, but I bet it doesn’t compare with the Californian sun.” Scott replies. Isenberg pulls his shades down in amazement, revealing bright blue eyes,  
“How’d you…?” He begins,  
“You’ve both got thick accents; Bressler’s not so much, but you’d both be better off not doing too much of the talking. In case we get into some trouble.” Elliot states abruptly, wisely,  
“I do know some Russian; vy znayete?” Bressler reminds his old associate,  
“Yes, but the Texan accent you say it with has never done you any favours.” Scott dryly reminds the CIA man, “Remember, when we tried to infiltrate SMERSH the first time? You got your backside beaten black & blue…” He breaks off in laughter, though Bressler is not amused,  
“It was a little more than my ass that took a beating.” He asserts sourly, before spitting out a partial denture of his lower left teeth from the first Molar to the Cuspid, “I also had four teeth pulled by Mordvinov’s thugs; remember?” Bond recoils with a grimace,  
“Just be glad they stopped at four.” Elliot smirks, turning a shoulder coldly to the Texan,  
“This is funny to you?” Bressler waves the denture in his indignation, “My girlfriend at the time left me, when she saw what the Russians had done to me! Not to mention that it hurt like Hell! That’s why I’m back; to get what’s owed to me.”  
“Your teeth?” Elliot frowns, “I’m pretty sure, unless they’ve been preserved somehow, they would have rotted away by now. Plus, I don’t think…”  
“Not my teeth, you fool.” Bressler interrupts, before finally fixing the denture back in place, “Revenge.” He then shakes his head in disbelief, “I sometimes wonder how I didn’t end up killing you the first time round; you smart-mouthed jackass. If I have to do it all again, with _you_ , I don’t know if you’ll make it back to merry old England this time…” He threatens darkly.  
“Then, you’ll be glad to know that Bond is taking the lead on this one.” Elliot reassures him.


	6. Briefing Goes Awry

Arriving at their hotel, the elegant Swissotel Krasnye Holmy between the Moskva River & the Vodootvodny Canal, Bressler & Isenberg show the British agents to the small twin room they will be sharing during their stay. Upon opening the door, Scott’s shoulders slump. It isn’t much, though it is modern in design; there are two double beds, a desk, a window that gives a half-decent view of the river, and an en-suite the size of a small walk-in closet,  
“Well,” Bond turns to his partner, “at least we have a bed each.” He grins hesitantly. Bressler stands at the superior MI6 agent’s shoulder,  
“Ours isn’t superior in size, if that makes you feel any better. But, it was booked on incredibly short notice; this is all they had left. Plus, it is still five-star.” He sympathetically pats his ally on the shoulder, before brushing past him. However, he soon turns back to Elliot, “Hey, you still seeing that…Miss…Matleena Aalto?” Scott shakes his head slowly, his eyes still questioning the quality of the room,  
“No, we called it off a long while ago.” He explains, “When did you & I last work together?”  
“It would be on the last original SMERSH case; five years ago.”  
“That’s how long it’s been since I saw Matleena.” Elliot remarks bluntly, “She wasn’t happy with me being away from her so much.” Benjamin Isenberg, who had been leaning against the wall, just inside the doorway, lowers his shades to reveal his bright blue eyes for the second time,  
“Matleena Aalto?” He scowls sceptically, “Not Matleena Aalto, Miss Finland contestant…damn, I forget the year.”  
“The very same Matleena Aalto.” His partner, Frank, nods,  
“And it was 1998.” Elliot reminds him. Isenberg clicks his fingers,  
“Yep, ’98.” Frank turns to his old friend,  
“Like you, Elliot, Isenberg has a thing for models. He isn’t picky about hair colour.” He then turns to his associate, “You know what they say, Benny? Gentlemen do prefer blondes.”  
“Hey, I’m not judging; Matleena is stunning. Even now.”  
“Can we save the chatter about women until after the job is done?” Bressler is itching to get the ball rolling, “The function at the Tretyakov this evening starts at seven sharpish; Isenberg & myself intend on showing up at twenty-past. To not look eager. Might I suggest you Brits turn up at a different time? So as not to raise suspicions.”  
“Ten-past?” Bond suggests.

“Is Marat Mordvinov confirmed to attend?” Scott turns to Bressler,  
“Don’t know that, yet, Elliot. But, it might be better if you make yourself scarce, or as incognito as you can; just in case he does. Maybe, you stay behind, here, and the three of us go instead.”  
“Why is that then?” Benjamin asks curiously,  
“Elliot Scott; don’t you recognise the name?” Bressler asks; Isenberg shakes his head, “Scott here is the man who took down Yegor Mordvinov. We went over this on the plane ride over here; remember? Old Mordvinov was the leader of SMERSH, when Scott & I first came to Russia. Scott ended up spending three years undercover, as Mordvinov’s bodyguard, until he shot him point-blank. I still don’t know who the order came from; Mordvinov could have been taken into custody. He didn’t have to be killed.”  
“Someone obviously wanted him dead.” Scott surmises coldly, “I don’t know if imprisoning him would have put an end to his tyranny.”  
“No, but now we’ve ended up with a son hell-bent on seeking revenge for his fallen father, and his father’s fallen empire…”  
“And a CIA agent hell-bent on avenging his missing teeth.” Scott quips crudely. Bressler exhales in a low growl, but does not show the British agent the reaction he was hoping to receive,  
“If you’re not with Miss Aalto anymore, then, just who have you been taking to your chalet over in Pontresina?”  
“You own a chalet there?” Bond questions loudly, "Just how long have you been taking your leave there?"  
“The last seven years, if you must know.” Scott answers his partner first, before turning to Bressler, “And, it’s none of your business. Gentlemen never kiss and tell.”  
“Gentleman? You?” Bressler scoffs, “C’mon, who’s your arm-candy now?”  
“Fine, fine; if it will shut you all up…” Elliot straightens his back, “Morgana Brault.” Isenberg is the first to react, almost spluttering on air in his surprise,  
“Morgana Brault? Swiss lingerie model, Morgana Brault?”  
“Swimwear.” Elliot quietly corrects the brash American,  
“Morgana Brault is…well, she’s young enough to be…your daughter!” Isenberg exclaims, before composing himself at the slightest gesture from his superior, “Well, I suppose the old dog still has to have a bone, from time to time.”


	7. The Tretyakov

That evening, the British agents arrive at the Tretyakov Gallery by private taxi at ten-past seven, as agreed with their American counterparts. The two men are dressed in black-tie attire; Scott with an Italian silk pocket square in purple with white dots, and Bond accessorises with a navy-blue Italian silk pocket square printed with a subtle floral design. Both men also wear concealed ear-pieces, lent to them by the CIA agents, so they can stay in contact over a minimal radius; in the event they find themselves separated by the crowds,  
“Do you think we can really trust Isenberg & Bressler?” Bond questions in a hushed tone, as they wander into the already bustling Hall N7 of the affluent gallery. Scott has occupied himself with scanning the faces for that of Marat Mordvinov,  
“Bressler is a straight & narrow kind of fellow; I can’t imagine he would ever betray his country, or ours. Isenberg; I’m not sure about him, yet. But, Bressler seems able to trust him, so we should too. Just warily, until we know him.” He explains, “Long & short of it, James, is that I’ve known Frank Bressler a long time; I’ve worked with him numerous times before, too. We can trust him, and his judgement.”  
“I’ll take your word for it.” Bond tugs at the lapels of his suit jacket, “I need to find a better way of storing a jacket in my luggage. How do you keep yours so neat?”  
“It’s all in the fold, James.” Elliot retorts smugly, “You’ll come to learn it, in time.” Soon, the American agents wander into Hall N7, right on time. Scott furtively places a finger to his ear-piece, to communicate with them, “The goose has not landed.”  
“ _The goose?_ ” Bressler’s voice whispers harshly back in his confusion,  
“You know…” Scott drones irritably, “M.M.”  
“ _M &M?_” Isenberg states, confused, “ _I don’t…my connection…ear-piece must be…_ ”  
“ _Isenberg’s ear-piece is faulty; we’re going to have to go switch it for another._ ” Bressler explains sharply, before both duck out quietly,  
“Don’t take too long.” Scott mentions briskly, but the Americans have already left. Bond turns to his partner,  
“Do you really think Mordvinov is going to appear tonight?” He questions, surveying the faces around them,  
“Unless he knows we’re here, in Russia; he has no reason not to.” Scott replies absently, his green eyes scanning the room for suspects & threats, “Keep your eyes peeled for anyone suspiciously watching us, though. Our cover could easily be blown tonight, if we’re not careful about how we conduct ourselves.”  
“I don’t speak a single word of Russian, though; you’ll have to do all the talking.” Bond reasons, as he watches a beautiful dark-haired woman in a long, royal blue, cape dress,  
“Some do speak English, James; you could start with the dama you have your eye on.” Scott snipes in response, “No, wait; if I’m not mistaken,” He turns his back to the woman, before she can see him, “that’s Valeria Nazarova.” 

“And, who is Valeria Nazarova?” Bond scowls in his lack of knowledge. His superior takes a moment to glare at him in silence, before stating,  
“You know; you ought to do more reading of that case-file I’ve brought with us.” He snipes, “But, Valeria Nazarova is, or was, Mordvinov Senior’s mistress in his final years.” The superior explains in a hushed voice, turning more toward his partner, “She was there, the night I shot him, so she cannot see me here tonight. Or else, our cover will be blown. It may already be too late.”  
“I don’t think she’s seen us yet.” James assures him, “She keeps checking the doors, as though she’s expecting someone. Maybe Mordvinov Junior.”  
“Maybe.” Elliot relaxes somewhat, “Although, rumour had it back in the days of Mordvinov Senior, that Miss Nazarova also wanted him dead. She’s playing a dangerous game, being here tonight, if Marat suspects her of his father’s murder too.”  
“So, she’s an ally?”  
“No.” Elliot affirms bluntly, “I don't know. I never got close to her; I tried to keep my connections to a minimum, the first time I was here. Mordvinov’s wife, Zhanna, attached herself to me; I didn’t seek out the relationship with her, although she was beautiful." He sighs, "Some say she was the most beautiful woman in all of Russia; then, there are those that say Valeria Nazarova is the most beautiful…”  
“I can see why.” Bond watches the Russian woman a moment longer, before looking to his partner, “You cared for Zhanna Mordvinov; you must have done?”  
“I-it was complicated, James. Let’s leave it at that.” Scott pats his associate on the shoulder,  
“Miss Nazarova has seen us now.” James abruptly declares, though quietly, “She’s making her way over.”  
“I’ll go check the perimeter, then; see if I can see any sign of Marat Mordvinov…” Scott affirms confidently,  
"What about me?"  
“You'll chat with Miss Nazarova.” James scowls at him, "You'll be fine; she's one of the English-speaking Russians." With that, Scott makes himself scarce, and leaves the junior agent to converse with Valeria.


	8. Valeria

Valeria Nazarova is a handsome woman, with soft black hair set in delicate waves over her left shoulder & dark brown eyes. Her thin lips are painted a deep red shade of lipstick, and her comely cheeks have been coloured with a gentle touch of blush. Her dress is a halter gown in a deep blue, with a chiffon cape attached over the shoulders. She moves toward the British agent with such elegance; she passes easily as the most glamourous woman in attendance,  
“Good evening.” She purrs, her long black lashes fluttering charmingly,  
“Good evening.” James replies courteously,  
“Where…has your friend gone?” Her dark brown eyes scan the hall,  
“Oh, you saw him?”  
“Yes.”  
“I’m sure he’ll be back soon.” A waiter in a red waistcoat wanders by with martinis on a silver tray. Bond takes one for him and offers another to Valeria. She coolly accepts and runs the long red nail of her right index finger around the rim,  
“I know who you are,” She purrs again, “Mr Bond.”  
“How…?”  
“I have been following you, from the moment you landed in Mother Russia.” She declares, “I know your friend, Mr Scott, too; I remember him from his first ‘business trip’ to my country.”  
“Do you get many Englishmen coming here on business?”  
“They say it is business that brings them here; we know different.”  
“We?” James frowns,  
“My friends.” She purrs cryptically,  
“And, are any of your friends here tonight?” James looks around nervously,  
“No. They knew you would be here; they want to play a game with our mutual acquaintance.”  
“Elliot…”  
“Tell him; the goose sends his regards.” With that she places the martini, untouched, on the tray of another passing waiter and disappears into the crowd. James tries to find her, but the throng of people is just too great. He does manage to locate the CIA agents, Bressler & Isenberg, returning to the Gallery benefit,  
“Bond; you look white as a sheet.” Bressler remarks, concerned,  
“Did you see Elliot outside anywhere?”  
“No. Should we have?” Isenberg questions,  
“He made himself scarce, when Valeria Nazarova started to approach us.”

“Nazarova?” Bressler’s eyes go wide, “What did you say to her?”  
“Nothing.” Bond informs him calmly, “She told me plenty, though. Informed me that she’s been watching Scott & myself since we landed in Moscow, and that her friends aren’t going to be here tonight. She didn’t tell me who her friends are…”  
“Mordvinov & his cronies; she’s a SMERSH agent, James.” Bressler interrupts astutely, “Scott did right to stay clear of her; SMERSH want him dead for his part in Yegor Mordvinov’s murder, although they don’t know yet that it was him. Well, they didn’t when we left Moscow five years ago. Five years is plenty of time to discover the truth about someone, though.” He pats James on the shoulder, “Don’t worry, Elliot won’t have gone far.”  
“That’s not all, Agent Bressler.” James mumbles, “She told me to tell Scott that the goose sends his regards.”  
“Oh, Hell…” Frank murmurs under his breath, “We have to find Elliot. Immediately.”  
“Why?” Bond questions, bewildered,  
“That’s what one of Mordvinov’s bastards told me, just before he ripped four of my teeth out.” Frank explains darkly, turning to his counterpart, “Isenberg, you take the western perimeter; James, you take the Southern. And, I’ll take the north and east.” He orders, before placing a hand consolingly on James’ shoulder, “We’ll find Elliot. Don’t worry; you’ve got one of the CIA’s best Russian operatives right here. I know Moscow, and her rats, like the back of my hand.” Before they separate, James places a finger to his ear-piece in hope,  
“Scott? Come in, Scott. Do you copy?”  
“ _Yes, I copy. It’s all quiet out here; no sign of the goose._ ” Elliot’s voice replies, “ _Miss Nazarova say much?_ ”  
“Where are you, Elliot?” Bressler questions quietly, so as not to draw attention to the three men talking to an invisible identity in a corner of the exhibition hall,  
“ _Out by the front of the gallery; why?_ ”  
“You’re in…” James begins, before an unfamiliar voice cuts in through Elliot’s ear-piece,  
“ _The goose sends his regards._ ” It is followed by two distinctive pops of a handgun,  
“Elliot?” Frank becomes alert, like a small Meerkat on the mound of its burrow, “Elliot?”  
“Scott? You copy?” Bond panics, “Scott!”


	9. Judas in the Ranks

As calmly as they can, so as not to raise suspicions, the three agents make their way out to the front of the gallery. Immediately, Bressler spots an irregular wet patch in the dim glow of the gallery lights,  
“Here.” He points to the tarmac, before crouching and dabbing his fingers in it, “Blood.” He shows the two junior agents, now both under his tutelage & guard, the red stain on his fingertips,  
“Blood? Is it Elliot’s?” Bond grimaces,  
“Can’t say, but it trails off. Look.” The Texan points in the direction of the blood trail, “It’s thin; whoever was bleeding wasn’t bleeding heavily. See? It also leads down to the road; must have been a car waiting.” Isenberg steps toward the roadside,  
“There was a black limousine just pulling up, as we were coming back from fixing my ear-piece.” He remembers, turning to his superior,  
“You’re right, Ben; but, an ageing, affluent couple were disembarking from it, just as we were walking back up to the Tretyakov.” Frank explains, as he wipes his fingers on his red silk pocket square, “Although, they could have been a cover. It could’ve easily been Mordvinov & his thugs, here on Valeria’s word, to pick up Scott in that limousine. They wouldn’t kill him here; too many witnesses.” The CIA agent affirms, before impulsively heading back toward the Tretyakov,  
“Wait, Frank! Where are you going?” Benjamin calls after his superior,  
“To find Valeria Nazarova.” Frank growls, without stopping,  
“What good will she do?” Ben questions, as the two junior agents now follow Bressler inside,  
“She might be able to tell us who picked Scott up, and where they’re taking him.” He explains shortly. The exhibition hall is still bustling, even more so than before it seems, and hopes of finding Valeria are soon dashed. But, Frank Bressler continues determinedly through the throng of people. Eventually locating the SMERSH female agent standing with an older woman by one of the paintings on display, the CIA agent grabs her roughly, but discretely, by her arm and calmly drags her through a fire exit. Outside, he efficiently disarms & disables her, kicking the silenced gun she has had concealed on her thigh across to Isenberg and pinning her against the wall. The junior agent picks the handgun up, before anyone else can claim it,  
“Tell me everything you know.” Bressler snarls low, into Valeria’s ear, from behind the SMERSH agent,  
“American dog!” She spits vehemently,  
“I know, you hate me.” Bressler thrusts her against the wall, “Still, tell me everything.”

“Zanimat’sya.” She snarls loudly.   
“Utverditel’nyy.” Isenberg replies automatically, cocking the gun Bressler had taken from Valeria and aiming it at his partner, “Sorry, Frank.” He sneers,  
“Wha-? Ben?” Frank blinks hard, as tears flood to his eyes, “My own partner? How long?”  
“How long?” The double-agent frowns, “You mean; how long have I been a SMERSH agent?” He sneers wickedly, “Ten years, Frankie.”  
“But…Elliot & I…we left Moscow five years ago…you’ve been in the CIA for four…” Frank still holds Valeria against the wall, as Bond stands dumbfounded by the sudden turn of events,  
“Yegor Mordvinov was training me to infiltrate the CIA’s Russian agenda, but then your pal, Elliot, killed him. Valeria took over my training, under Marat Mordvinov’s command, and sent me back to America…”  
“You are American, then?”  
“It’s hard to copy the American accent, when your natural one is Russian.” Benjamin states dryly, “So, yeah; I am American, and I am Benjamin. Benjamin Isayev; the son of Russian communists, who immigrated to America on orders from SMERSH before I was born. After I was born, my parents were ordered to send me back to Russia, on my eighteenth birthday. But, enough of my origin story; let her go, Frank.”  
“Drop the gun, Benjamin.” James Bond cuts in, holding his Walther firmly outstretched & aimed at the double-agent, “Drop it.”  
“Oh, yes; I had forgotten about you. James Bond…”  
“Drop the gun, Benjamin.” The Englishman repeats his command,  
“Afraid I can’t, until Frank lets Valeria go. My orders are to protect her tonight.”  
“Why? What’s so important about Valeria?” Frank questions him,  
“Ostorozhnyy, Isayev.” Valeria quietly commands. Benjamin steps toward her & Frank, gun still aimed at his CIA partner,  
“One more step, Isayev…” Bond snarls, following the double-agent with his Walther, “…and you will leave me no choice.”  
“I see I have little choice here then…” Benjamin smirks wickedly, before firing the gun he has pointed at Frank.


	10. Marat

As Frank Bressler, veteran agent of the Central Intelligence Agency, stumbles to the ground behind the Tretyakov, Valeria Nazarova & Benjamin Isayev make their escape. James Bond lets off several shots of his Walther, but each one lodges into the exterior gallery wall. He then comes alongside Frank. Benjamin has always stood taller than the Texan; a few inches makes all the difference, as in this case. Frank Bressler has been shot in the head; there is no saving him. Immediately, James reaches for his mobile phone and dials for assistance,  
“Mallory?”  
“ _Is the line secure? Your…fish isn’t going to get away whilst we talk, is it?_ ”  
“N-no…Mallory, listen…”  
“ _No, it’s not secure; or, no, the fish won’t get away?_ ”  
“The fish won’t get away.” Bond states irritably, “Mallory, listen; I’ve had to use my ‘umbrella’.”  
“ _It’s turned nasty? How?_ ”  
“One of our friends has…left early.”  
“ _Frank? Or Benjamin?_ ”  
“The first.” James replies solemnly, glancing over the deceased CIA agent,  
“ _And, where’s Elliot?_ ”  
“I don’t know.”  
“ _What do you mean you don’t know? Find him; fast._ ”  
“I don’t know how; can Q get a location from Scott’s tracking device?”  
“ _Call him, and be discrete. Anyone could be listening._ ”  
“ _S-sorry, M._ ” Geoffrey Boothroyd’s voice starts nervously, “ _I-I saw that it was James calling, and I just wanted to know the agents are safe._ ”  
“Do you know where Elliot is? Have you seen him?” Bond asks immediately,  
“ _Outside the Church of St. John the Warrior, on Bolshaya Yakimanka; seventeen minutes’ walk south-west of your current location. Be careful, James._ ”  
“ _Right, now that you know where he is; go retrieve him._ ” Mallory orders,  
“One more thing, M; Benjamin Isenberg is really Benjamin Isayev. He’s a double-agent.”  
“ _Find Elliot first; with news of Frank’s departure, I’m sure Elliot will want to deal with the traitor himself. He & Frank go way back, after all._”  
“Yes, sir. And, thanks again, Q.”  
“ _Just bring Elliot Scott back in one piece, James._ ”

James holsters his Walther and walks calmly away from the American agent’s body, as blood pools slowly on the ground around Frank. Inconspicuously, James heads for Yakimanka Street, checking his mobile phone’s map for directions once in a while. As he comes round the corner, he slows his gait and draws his Walther once more. Voices; low and Russian. Creeping along the red & white wall of the Church of St. John the Warrior, the voices become somewhat louder, but are still exclusively Russian. Three, maybe four, individuals. He stops just before the eastern gate into the churchyard, and leans furtively round for a better look. Three individuals, two men and a woman, stand by a black limousine. Looking for long enough, Bond can determine the woman is Valeria Nazarova, and that she has herself draped around the traitor, Benjamin Isayev. The third individual, the other man, looks suspiciously like Marat Mordvinov. James aims his Walther, but stops when a fourth individual is dragged from the limousine by Benjamin. Elliot Scott. He has been beaten into a near-somnolent state, and he cannot stand on his right leg. Benjamin laughs derisively,  
“Privyet, Elliot.” Bond hears him say,  
“Ben…Isenberg…?”  
“Isayev, actually; but, yeah, Elliot. It’s Benny.”  
“Where’s Frank?” Elliot questions resolutely, through a thick-sounding lip,  
“Now, now; save your energy. It must hurt to talk.” Ben laughs again, patting the English agent patronisingly on the cheek, “As for Frank? He’s fallen in the line of duty.”  
“You’re a son of a…” Elliot begins, “He had a family; a wife & two children, you bastard! He was getting out, after this! After this, he was going to be done with it all! And…he trusted you? He trusted you; he believed in you, and this is how you repay him! This is your way of showing gratitude?” Elliot then spits furiously at the traitor,  
“Hey; watch the suit!” Benjamin exclaims indignantly; Scott must have spat blood at him. He then lunges at the English agent,  
“Dostatochno, Veniamin!” The man who must be Mordvinov commands harshly, and the traitor recoils into a calm obedience, “Elliot Scott; here is a man that I thought I would never be so lucky as to lay my eyes on again.”  
“Marat…you haven’t changed a bit.” Scott retorts, still keeping up his wit, “Old Yegor would be proud.”


	11. Conclusion

Marat walks right into Bond’s line of fire, offering him the perfect clean shot, but Benjamin is likely still armed,  
“We know it was you, his trusted bodyguard, who killed him five years ago.” Marat states coldly. Chances are, Valeria Nazarova is also once again armed, “Do you know, though, who gave you the order?” Bond has to be quick enough to kill Marat Mordvinov, and disarm both Benjamin & Valeria,  
“No, but I feel that you’re about to enlighten me.” Scott quips bluntly, before nursing his jaw, “You didn’t pull any of my teeth, like you did Frank’s five years ago; did you?”  
“No.” Marat laughs, “But, you’re right; I am about to tell you who ordered you to kill my father. And then, Veniamin will put a bullet right there.” Marat pokes the Englishman between the eyes, “So that you can tell no-one else.” There is also the chance that there are more SMERSH agents in the vicinity, in case of an ambush. They must be expecting the other MI6 agent to find them, in a rescue attempt,  
“Was it you?” Elliot questions coolly, “You ordered your father killed, so that you could take over SMERSH operations in his stead.”  
“I suppose I should be thanking you, Elliot; not killing…”  
“I hadn’t finished.” Elliot cuts in brashly, “You were getting bored of being forever in Papa’s shadow; thing is, Marat, that your old man…he was getting on a bit. He confided in me, the night I shot him, that he was considering stepping down. Abdicating at last, like some hoary old king, and handing the power over to you. You didn’t have to have him killed that night, Marat. You didn’t need to kill your father.”  
“Veniamin…?”  
“Ser?”  
“Prikonchit’ yego.” It must be now, or never. Bond takes aim with his Walther; he squeezes the trigger twice. Once to the back, once to the head. He has to be sure that Marat Mordvinov goes down. Valeria is the first to react, but James reacts faster. She takes one to the shoulder; non-life-threatening. Benjamin then grapples Elliot Scott, to employ him as a human shield,  
“Bond; I should’ve known…I should’ve taken you out first, then Frank.” The double-agent shouts into the darkness,  
“Yes, perhaps you should have. But, you know what they say about hindsight?” Bond retorts, “Now, tell me, how many more SMERSH agents are in the vicinity?”  
“None.” Benjamin replies, “We’re a small organisation these days, James. Or, did Mallory not tell you that, before sending you out here? So ill-equipped, and pathetic…and old.” He snarls at Elliot.

“Old?” Elliot Scott retorts, mortified, “Mind who you’re calling old, chap!” He then throws himself forward, launching his grappler overhead and landing him with a nasty thump on the ground. Whilst Benjamin lies groaning in agony at his bruised back, Elliot leans over him, “Turns out, Benjamin, that the old dogs know the most tricks; that’s why you can’t teach them any new ones.” With a grumble about his own pain, Elliot leans down and forces the gun out of the double-agent’s hand. He cocks it, and aims first for the head. He then moves to the chest, then the groin, “Where do you want it, Veniamin? Mozgi libo shariki?”  
“Wha-?”  
“Thought as much.” Elliot smirks, “You ought to have brushed up on your Russian language, not just your Russian ideals.” He explains, as James appears from behind the eastern gate of the church wall,  
“Aren’t you going to shoot him?”  
“I will; I just thought I would be polite, as we English are said to be, and enquire as to his preference of target. I’ve asked him; brains or balls? Tell me, James, if you can; where did he shoot Frank?”  
“Left temple.”  
“Head?”  
“Yes, Elliot. He shot Frank, cold-hearted, in the head.”  
“Head it is, then.” Elliot coolly takes aim,  
“No! Wait, please! Deport me to America; let me face my punishment there. Please!” Benjamin cries,  
“Why? They’re likely to just send you to Death Row anyway.” Elliot surmises cruelly, “No.” He fires, “I’d rather it be done here, where I can see it. Frank, old friend; may you rest in peace.” The English agent throws the gun away, and James helps him to walk away from the scene,  
“What now?” The junior agent asks,  
“I retire.” Elliot states bluntly, “I’m nearer to fifty than I am forty now; I can’t keep going on, in Her Majesty’s Secret Service, like I am. Maybe take a desk-job, if I can’t face retirement.”  
“A desk-job wouldn’t suit you, Scott. Not after this long in the Service.” James remarks wittily, “Take your retirement, and take Miss Brault to the Galapagos Islands for three months. Snorkel in Horseshoe Reef, or go barefoot on the beach at Jost Van Dyke. Fall off the radar completely.”  
“Is that what you’d do?” Scott frowns at him,  
“It’s what I’d like to do.”  
“Then, I’ll probably just stick to the mountains of Pontresina.” Elliot quips back jestingly.


End file.
